


Burn Box

by i_am_therefore_i_fight



Series: tacenda [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Suicidal Thoughts, Wincest - Freeform, suicidal ideations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-09 23:38:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6929035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_am_therefore_i_fight/pseuds/i_am_therefore_i_fight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's been keeping secrets. A lot of secrets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the box

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted at http://i-am-therefore-i-fight.tumblr.com/post/54143659365/burn-box.

_Tacenda (n.): things better left unsaid._

_Burn box (n.): a box whose contents are of such exquisite secrecy that, in the case of the owner’s demise, it falls upon a close friend to burn the contents before they can be discovered._

—-

Dean’s pretty sure that Sam is still out buying groceries, but he peeks into the room to double-check that it’s empty before bringing in the long-awaited Box. It’s big and it’s full—he’s not sure of what—and he grunts as he lugs it inside, hauling it up onto his bed, where its weight causes it to sink deep into the mattress. He stands back for a moment to regard it.

It’s unassuming, square and brown with printed postmarks on it, yet Dean can’t help feeling slightly giddy over the mystery of it. He received a call three days ago from a bank in South Dakota stating that they were closing an account due to its lack of renewal by owner and that, since they couldn’t reach the owner (“a one Robert Singer”) and he was the secondary contact (“Is this Mr. Dean? Mr. James Dean?”), would he like to provide them with an address to which they could send the contents of Mr. Singer’s safety deposit box?

He gave them the address of the motel, badgered Sam into staying a couple of extra days after their mission was over (“We gotta make sure that jerkoff didn’t have any friends in the area, Sammy, don’t bad things usually travel in packs?”), and voila, here lies the fruit of his efforts. He’s going to tell Sam, he really is. It’s not like he’s gonna try to keep this a secret forever. He just… he wants to have a look for himself, first. What could Bobby have left him in a safety deposit box in South Dakota?

His heart’s beating hard, _thrump thrump thrump,_ as he slits the tape and opens up the flaps. When he peeks inside, though, he’s disappointed. It’s a mass of paper, bent and crumpled and sliding together in uneven stacks, and the secret answer to all questions of life might be hidden somewhere in those papers but it’s still not nearly as exciting to him as some new artifact would’ve been.

“Sending me homework from the grave, Bobby?” Dean mutters, picking out a sheet at random and giving it a once-over. It’s a piece of notebook paper, smudged and a little torn, and it—

_—so this year for my birthday I’m getting myself a present. I’m getting out. I’m getting out and I’m gonna be happy. I’m going to school, Dean. I already sent in my applications. Did you know I could get a full ride at Stanford? I want to tell you but I can’t help feeling like you’d be disappointed instead of proud._

Dean drops the paper like it burns, stomach churning. What the hell is this? Memorabilia? Was Bobby keeping ratty mementos of their childhood in a lockbox somewhere? He picks up another one, blue pen scrawled on a paper napkin.

_You eat nothing but red meat and drink black coffee and whiskey like ambrosia because you don’t think you’re gonna live long enough for it to matter. You’d probably take up smoking if it wouldn’t wreck your lungs and make you a bad hunter. Dean, do you even **want** to make it to fifty?_

This one is in Sam’s handwriting, too. Sam, scribbling on a diner napkin with a leaky pen fished out of his pocket, probably looking across the table at Dean chowing down on a second beef-burger-with-everything and another half-plate of French fries. But Sam never complained about Dean’s eating habits until after Stanford. Which makes this a recent note.

Dean fumbles to brace himself on the bedside table, feeling the world begin to spin. What _is_ this?

He’s brought back to Earth with a jolt when his phone vibrates. He checks it without a thought, numb, and his heart jumps when he sees Sam’s name on the screen.

_Should I get eggs?_

In other words, _are we going to be here long enough for me to make a meal involving eggs at least twice, or am I going to end up throwing half these groceries away when I get home and you tell me we’re hitting the road?_

_Yeah_ , Dean texts back. In other words, _we’ll be here a while._

He looks at the box on the bed. He’s thinking maybe he needs to keep this from Sam just a little bit longer. Just until he figures out what the fuck it’s about.

—-

Sam has the Impala, so Dean ends up half-carrying, half-dragging the box to the Denny’s a couple blocks away. He would’ve preferred a library or something—something with lots of space and no chance of accidentally smudging any of the papers with maple syrup—but it’s already dusk and Denny’s is the only thing nearby that’s open twenty-four hours. He finds a quiet booth, puts the box on the bench next to him and orders a black coffee (“keep it comin’, sweetheart, I got a long night ahead of me”). He sends a text to Sam— _don’t wait up,_ which is code for _I’ve got a hot date so don’t expect me back until morning_ —and then picks out another leaflet at random and settles in to read.

_You haven’t talked to me about Hell. I’m trying to understand, but it’s hard. You don’t seem to want me to understand. You don’t seem to want to connect with me at all. I know you’ve been through a lot, Dean, but how can I help you if you won’t let me in? Please don’t shut me out. I’m here, Dean, I’m here and I love you and you don’t have to do this alone._

Dean puts the letter down, blowing out a shaky breath. “I’m not sure I can do this at all,” he says aloud. He looks into the box, into the mess of notebook pages, scrap papers, postcards. He’s beginning to suspect that they’re all from Sam. And he’s beginning to think it’s very possible that they’re all addressed to him. He doesn’t know why Bobby had them, and he doesn’t know why Sam sent them in the first place, and he’s not sure Sam ever intended for them to come into his hands, but now they have, and he doesn’t know what to do. He’s tempted to put the lid back on it and send it away. Salt it and burn it like he does with all the things he’s threatened by. Nothing too terrible has come of it yet, but his instincts are telling him that this is Pandora’s Fucking Box, and it’s only going to get worse from here.

He picks out another letter.

_I missed you so much. I dreamed about you every night. Every single night for four years, Dean. Do you know how many hours that is? How many hours I spent dreaming that you would come for me? And then you really did, and I thought it had to be another dream. But in my dreams we were always happy to see each other. The second I saw you, all the time and all the fights, they’d just fall away, like magic, and it’d be you and me against the world again. But it wasn’t like that. I was confused and hurt and you were trying too hard to be casual. And then you said Dad was missing, and I just—I thought, “He doesn’t want me. He didn’t come for me. He came for Dad. He wants me to help him get back to Dad.” It hurt so bad, I just—and then I said the wrong thing, and it just got worse. Instead of saying all the stuff I was thinking, all the stuff I’d been waiting to say to you—“I missed you,” “I’m so happy to see you,” “I’m really glad you’re okay,” “You look great,” “Look, Dean, I’m doing it, I’m really doing it, I’m making it out in the real world, all by myself, and it’s because of everything you taught me, everything you gave me”—instead of saying any of that, I told you to fuck off, said you could find Dad on your own. I wish I’d said—something. **Anything** else. “How are you, Dean?” “I missed you, Dean.” “Let’s grab a beer while you’re in town, Dean.” “Thanks for everything, Dean. You were the best big brother anyone could ever ask for.” I’m an idiot for not saying any of that, but I’m saying it now. I love you, Dean. I love you. I missed you so much it almost killed me. I should’ve said it then and now I’m starting to think it’s too late. I’m sorry. I love you. Thanks for everything._

“More coffee?” the waitress asks. Dean nods. Doesn’t trust himself to speak. Watches her pour the coffee; shakes his head when she asks if he needs anything else; waits until she’s gone before he picks up another letter.

_Sometimes I fall asleep thinking about you and I wake up saying your name. And half of me is terrified that you’ll hear and you’ll ask about it and the other half wishes you would, even though I know I’d never be brave enough to tell you the truth._

“What truth?” Dean mutters. “What truth, Sam?” He scrabbles for another, hoping this one will give him an answer.

_Dean,_

_Last game of the season was today._ (This is an old one, then. So far, none of them have been dated. Another indication that Sam probably didn’t intend for Dean to have these. Dean hesitates, but he can’t stop now. He’s in this for the long haul. He keeps reading.) _We won. You weren’t there. That’s the first time you haven’t been able to make it to one of my games. You were out hunting, with Dad. I waited up all night to tell you, but when you got home, you were so tired and so sad, it was like you’d turned into a ghost instead of ganking one. You kissed me hello—actually kissed me, right on the mouth and everything, must’ve been real tired to do something like that—and then went straight to bed and cried yourself to sleep. You’ll probably tell me in the morning, but you’ll act like it’s no big deal, and you won’t wanna talk about it, and you’ll dismiss anything I try to say. So I’m telling you here, now: whatever it was, it wasn’t your fault. I know you did your best. Dad knows that, too. He’s proud of you, even if he sometimes acts like a douchebag. We’re both proud of you._

_Love you, Dean._

_Sam_

_P.S. I scored two goals using that really tricky move I learned during the extra practice sessions you forced me to go to. So thanks for that._

Dean remembers that job. He was eighteen. He and John had smoked the sucker, but not before losing an entire family to it, including their sweet, precious eight-year-old. He doesn’t remember kissing Sam hello. He must’ve _really_ been tired.

He didn’t know about the soccer game. He should’ve, but he didn’t. Sam had been talking about it nonstop for two weeks, and Dean had been the one to take him to all of his practices and to hound him over homework when all Sam wanted to do was go out into the yard and kick the soccer ball around. But the day of the game, he’d been too wrapped up in the job for it to even cross his mind. And Sam had never said a word about him missing it.

“You won it, though,” Dean murmurs, folding the letter up carefully and placing it on top of his growing stack. “Scored two goals, Sammy. That team was nothin’ without you.”

He picks up the next one and his heart gives a particularly hard squeeze. His breath catches.

It’s one sentence, the font sharp with emotion and stained with tears.

_What’s the point if you don’t believe in me?_

He doesn’t need a date for this one. He knows what Sam’s talking about.

“I didn’t mean it, Sam. I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry.” He clutches the paper so hard it crinkles, like he can erase this from their history, like maybe if he concentrates hard enough, he can communicate with the Sam in the past—the Sam who’s crying as he writes this, the Sam who thinks he’s truly worthless now that not even Dean has faith in him. He thinks about rushing back to their motel room to tell Sam—to tell him—

He picks up another one. This one, too, is short, spidery, the script harsh with pain, but it’s sloppier, younger. Teenage-Sam, Dean thinks. Sammy.

_I had another one of those dreams about you last night. You’d hate me if you knew. I’m sorry, Dean. I’m so fucking sorry. I’m sorry I’m such a freak. I’m sorry. I’m sorry._

“What dreams, Sam?” Whatever it is, it can’t be that bad. They’ve seen some pretty ugly parts of each other in the years since this was written. Sam was probably overreacting. He always was a dramatic kid. Dean picks a different one.

_Dean,_

_Cas is gone. You look too tired to even speak. I wish I could fix it. I want to be there for you. I want to be what you need. Dean, I’ll do anything for you. You know that, right? I know I’ve fucked up royally but I’ve always, always been yours. Let me help you. Say the word and I’ll cut my heart out with a silver knife and shove a burning coal in its place. Dean, please. I know you feel alone without him here. But I’m still here. I’m not what you want, but I’m here. Please. Talk to me. Let me do something for you. I’ll do anything. Dean, if I could take his place, I would. If I could trade myself for him, I would, I swear, Dean, I would, I would. But I can’t. You’re stuck with me. I’m sorry._

Dean closes his eyes. “Stop it, Sam.”

_Dean, if I could take his place, I would._

 “I would never trade you for Cas, you fucking moron. How could you even think something like that?”

_Dean, please._

_I’m not what you want, but I’m here._

“Why the fuck would you _ever_ say something like that.”

_I know you feel alone without him here._

Dean doesn’t have a response to that. Because, well, the truth is, he did. He felt alone without Cas. The distance between him and Sam had felt insurmountable. He’d wanted Cas back. Wanted someone he could talk to. Someone he could trust.

But not at the expense of Sam. Never at the expense of Sam.

“Dumb fucking ass,” Dean spits. “Is that all this is? It’s a fucking list of all the ways I failed you. Isn’t it? What am I being punished for, Sam? Why now? Why did you think this was necessary? You think I don’t feel enough like a piece of shit?” He slams his fist down onto the table. “ _What the fuck is this supposed to prove?_ ”

The whole diner has gone silent, and Dean realizes that the cook, the waitress, the two patrons at the breakfast bar, they’re all staring at him. He stares back, a muscle jumping in his jaw, until they look away.

He starts digging in the box, shoving aside the loose-leaf and the paper diner menus. “There’s gotta be something,” he mutters. “There’s gotta be something in here that’s happy, Sam, we had some good times, remember? Or was this all about me hurting you? Is that all there is? Is that all there ever was, all you ever saw?”

He finds it—the thing he only half-knew he was looking for, the thing it takes him a moment to recognize. It’s a postcard from the Cleveland Botanical Gardens.

He looks at it for a moment, remembering. Remembering Sam’s laughing face, his animated movements, his mild sunburn that had already turned into a tan by the time the day was over. Remembering the way the two of them had walked in step, daring each other to climb the trees while no one was looking. Remembering that he picked the drabbest flower he could find and gleefully told Sam to wear it in his hair, and Sam cracked up and smacked it from his hand. Remembering Sam in the gift shop, spinning the rack of postcards around and around, hunting for the perfect one. Remembering the way Sam’s smile came so easily that day.

He’s afraid to turn it over and see what’s written there. He wants to believe that Sam was happy. He _has_ to believe that Sam was happy. This was their Heaven, their Eden. If he finds out it was a lie, Dean thinks he might just crumble into dust and blow away.

_Don’t take this away from me, Sam,_ he prays as he turns the card over.

_Dean,_

_This was the best day of my life. It hardly even seems real. I wish it could’ve lasted forever._

_Promise me that even though it’ll probably be business as usual tomorrow, you’ll remember this. Promise me you’ll remember that we were like this. Promise that if things ever get really bad between us, you’ll remember that we can be what we are today._

_Love,_

_Sam_

Dean puts his head down on the table and sobs.

—-

When he finds the first suicide note, he almost ditches the box right there and goes straight back to the motel to scream some sense into his little brother—who’s probably asleep right now, blissfully unaware of the torture he’s putting Dean through, the way Dean’s been blissfully unaware of the ocean of broken glass that’s been crashing against the shores inside of Sam all these years.

When he finds the second one, he goes into the Denny’s bathroom and punches the tiled wall until his knuckles bleed, then quietly comes back out and sits down to read again.

When he finds the third one, he rips it to pieces.

—-

_I remember one of the many times we were pretending to be a gay couple. And I’d just gotten up the courage to turn to you and say, “You can kiss me if you think it’ll be more convincing.” I was gonna be cool about it; I was gonna laugh at you when you sputtered and rolled your eyes. But when I turned around, you were flirting with the check-in girl._

_You didn’t say one word to me for the rest of the night. You were too busy assuring everyone else that even though we were “dating,” it wasn’t “serious.”_

_Good thing you made that so clear, otherwise I might’ve done something really, really stupid._

—-

Dean’s not sure how he could’ve missed something like this.

If it was new, maybe. They’ve been busy these past few years. And it’s not exactly like Sam’s been very open with him lately.

But from what he can figure judging by the few dated cards and the events that he’s able to put into context in his own memory, Sam’s been hiding this for over a _decade_. And there are enough cards here, enough notes scribbled on napkins and sheaves of paper torn from notebooks, to constitute at least one letter a week. For over _ten years_. How could it have escaped Dean’s attention for that long? Yes, alright, he has noticed Sam occasionally scribbling on a diner napkin and then slipping it into his pocket, but he figured it was—case notes, or, or doodles, or—who the fuck cares what? Anything. Not this. This would never have occurred to him in a million years. And… yes, _okay_ , he knows that Sam likes postcards, has always liked postcards, plucks postcards from the racks at gift shops and gas stations even when he’s in the middle of complaining that they could’ve driven for another two hours and he doesn’t understand why Dean wanted to stop and see yet another “America’s Largest Ball of Twine” or “America’s Oldest Waystation.” But he’s always just filed that under Weird Things About Sam. It’s an extensive category.

It’s gotten a lot more extensive since he opened this box.

Sam thinks about a lot of weird shit. Some of it’s kind of disturbing. And Dean’s, well… disturbed. But he’s also intrigued. More than that. He’s hungry for it. He _wants_ to know this about Sam, wants to touch these parts that he’s never seen before. He doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry over Sam’s confession that he once used a rock to crush the skull of an injured baby bird, not out of cruelty, but because it was peeping so pitifully and he didn’t know how else to help it. He had nightmares about it for days afterward. Dean wishes he’d known. Wishes he could’ve told Sam that it didn’t make him a bad person or a sicko or a freak. _You were just a kid, Sammy. You didn’t know any better._ Dean wishes he’d known about a lot of this stuff. Maybe he could’ve helped. Maybe he could’ve fixed it.

There’s one part he thinks he could’ve gone on not knowing.

The first time he picks up one of Sam’s dirty fantasy letters, he drops it after the second line, trembling. He didn’t know—he didn’t realize—he wouldn’t have read it if—

But it’s _addressed to him_.

“Sam, what the hell are you doing?” he whispers, staring at the innocent white page with its curvy, twisting black ink, clear and heavy and full of intent. He sits and stares at it for a long time, then takes a shaky drink of his coffee and slowly picks the page back up.

When he gets to the end, he puts it down again and wipes the back of his unsteady hand across his mouth. His face is flushed, and his breath is coming in uneven bursts; his movements are jerky and his insides all feel like they’re in the wrong places. He’s a marionette whose strings are all tangled up.

“ _Sammy_ ,” he breathes, voice breaking, and he puts his face in his hands.

Shit just got a hell of a lot more complicated.


	2. the letter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The confrontation doesn't go well.

The sun’s just peeking through the curtains when Dean steps over the threshold of the motel room with the box in his arms. Sam’s up already, sitting at the table with his chin in his hand, scrolling disinterestedly on the laptop. His eyes flicker up, quickly taking inventory of the tightness in Dean’s shoulders, the tense, weary lines of his face. He frowns.

“What’s in the box?” is the first thing out of his mouth.

Dean kicks the door shut behind him, takes two steps, and upends the box onto his un-slept-in bed, spilling Sam’s letters across the quilt in a wave of finality like sand pouring from a broken hourglass.

Sam watches, interested and a little concerned. “What is that?” He looks up at Dean, who’s looking back at him, tight-lipped, and the first hints of real worry begin moving inside of him. “Dean?”

“Why don’t you tell me?” Dean says quietly, his voice rough from a night of black coffee and no sleep. _(And tears. And biting his tongue until it bled, then swallowing the coppery taste as if it would anchor him to the present. It didn’t work.)_

Sam’s staring at him now, eyes wide, lips parted, brow wrinkling. He starts to get up, then hesitates, still looking askance of Dean.

Dean nods shortly at the pile of paper. _Go on._

Sam moves slowly, getting out of his chair and crossing the room to stand on the other side of the bed. He studies the mess with a slight frown and no sign of recognition. He picks up one of the letters. Unfolds it. Reads it. Dean watches impassively as the blood drains from his face.

Sam looks up, and Dean thinks that Sam has looked into the face of the devil himself with less fear than is in his eyes now.

“Where… did you get this?”

His voice is barely above a choked whisper, like the wind has been knocked out of him and it’s a struggle to speak at all. Dean feels hollow. Maybe the wind has been knocked out of him too. Maybe everything’s been knocked out of him.

“Somebody called me,” he says, his voice miraculously even and clear. “Bobby’s bank or his lawyer or something. Said they were closing an account for legal reasons and needed to send all this shit somewhere, and since they couldn’t get in touch with him, I was the next recipient on the list.”

Sam sinks down onto the edge of the other bed, the letter still clutched in his hand. “Did you…” He swallows. “Did you read them?”

“Every word.”

Sam closes his eyes. He’s barely breathing.

“You gonna say something?” Dean prompts after a long silence.

Sam’s free hand fumbles for the bedcovers, clutching them so hard his knuckles turn white, like he’s afraid he’ll float away if he doesn’t.

“What is there to say?” he replies softly.

Hurt and angry and bitter for reasons he can’t understand, let alone verbalize, Dean allows an undercurrent of cruelty to enter his voice when he gestures sweepingly to the ocean of letters and bites out, “Nothing. I guess you’ve said it all.”

Sam’s eyes flash open and they’re so full of surprised anguish that Dean feels like he’s been punched in the solar plexus.

“Sam. I didn’t mean…”

“I have to go,” Sam mumbles, lurching to his feet, and he’s past Dean and out the door before Dean can even think to react. Not that it matters; Dean doesn’t think he could move right now anyway. He stands frozen as the door slams shut, staring down at the years of unspoken words spread out on the bed before him, and listens to the silence.

—-

Sam’s been gone for a few minutes before Dean realizes he left his phone behind. He’s been gone for an hour before Dean starts to get worried. He’s been gone for two hours before Dean gets in the car and goes to look for him.

He’s been gone for three hours before Dean starts to pray.

—-

Dean’s been twenty-four hours without sleep. He’s been turning Sam’s letters over and over in his mind ceaselessly for the past twelve. His thoughts are on a loop, and each time he goes around, he’s more tense, more anxious, more frustrated. More afraid.

_There’s no coming back from this._

He shouldn’t be shocked that the final straw was yet another one of Sam’s secrets, he thinks bitterly. Yeah, he definitely should’ve seen that coming. He never does, though, does he? Sam always manages to sucker punch him.

Some people never learn.

—-

He can’t help resenting Sam for doing this to him. He can’t help feeling like Sam is just doing it for attention, even though that makes _no sense_ seeing as Sam _never intended to tell him_ about the letters.

_At least we can agree on one thing. I should never have read those fucking letters._

So even though he knows, he _knows_ it’s not Sam’s fault that shit went down this way, he can’t help it. He can’t help that when he finally spots Sam walking on the shoulder of the road toward the highway with his hands in his pockets, he pulls up next to him and rolls the passenger window down and the first thing he barks out is, “You left your phone, you dumb fuck.”

Who can blame him? It _was_ irresponsible of Sam to leave his phone behind. Dean was scared. Anything could’ve happened.

But then he doesn’t stop. He keeps up the constant stream of rebukes even as Sam climbs into the car with his head bent so that his bangs fall over his eyes. He keeps berating him as they pull away from the shoulder, keeps feeling like he has to defend his actions, has to make this Sam’s fault, even though Sam’s just sitting there, saying “okay” or “sorry” whenever a response is required. When he finally runs out of words—hoarse, now, even more so than before—he lapses into silence, but he keeps glancing over at Sam while he drives. Sam’s just _sitting_ there, just staring out the window, and Dean hates it, hates his stillness, hates the quiet that soaks heavy into the air between them like the humidity before a rainstorm. The pressure inside and the pressure outside are both so much that he doesn’t know if he’s going to burst or be crushed. So he does what he always does. He lashes out.

“Busy composing another letter, there, Sammy?”

Sam jolts like Dean slapped him and his voice comes out fast and clear and hard. “Stop the car.”

“What?”

Sam turns toward him, and Dean finds himself staring into the wide, reflective eyes of someone who’s mortally wounded, and knows it. One tear is still making its slow way down Sam’s right cheek.

“You want me to be honest with you, Dean?” he bites out. “You think you do, but you really don’t. But, fine. I will anyway. You’re saying things just to hurt me and it makes me sick. I wish I’d never written a single one of those fucking letters. You were _never_ supposed to find them. I wish I’d burned them, and I’d rather spend the night in a muddy ditch than spend _one more minute_ in this car with you and your fucking _contempt_. Now pull over before I open the door and get out anyway!”

Stunned, Dean pulls over, and Sam opens the door and stumbles from the car, turning to walk unsteadily back the way they came. Dean scrambles out after him.

“Sam, wait—”

Sam doesn’t wait, and Dean chases after him. When he catches up, Sam is really crying, wiping his face on his sleeves repeatedly and trying to breathe without sobbing.

“Wait,” Dean says. “I’m sorry. Hey. I’m sorry. Please wait.”

Against all logic, Sam slows, though he won’t look at Dean.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says again. “That was—I was way outta line. I’m being a prick for no good reason.”

Sam gives his face one final, angry swipe and then shoves his hands into his pockets. “I knew you’d react like this. Why do you think I wrote those stupid letters instead of talking to you?”

“They’re not stupid,” Dean says quietly, and Sam stops walking, so Dean stops too, and then they’re just standing there. An eighteen-wheeler goes by, its bulk swaying, and the slipstream rocks Dean back on his heels. Sam watches it pass. Dean doesn’t look away from Sam’s face.

He wants it to be Sam who speaks next, but it doesn’t look like that’s gonna happen, so Dean clears his throat.

“Turns out you had me pinned pretty good.”

_I’m the guy whose sweet baby brother wrote him a thousand love letters and all I’ve managed to do so far is emotionally gut him._

“Kinda makes me wonder why you’d wanna talk to me at all.”

Sam shrugs, scuffs his shoe on the asphalt.

“Can’t help who you love, I guess,” he says softly.

Dean studies him for a moment before agreeing.

“No. I guess not.”

Then he reaches out and gives the back of Sam’s flannel shirt a gentle tug.

“Come on home. We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. I promise I’ll keep my stupid mouth shut.”

—-

They ride home without speaking or looking at each other. Sam goes inside first and pauses when he sees the letters still spread out on the bed. Dean shuts the door and slips past him, walking over to begin grabbing handfuls of paper and placing them carefully back into the box like they’re fragile. He can feel Sam’s gaze burning into his back, and he doesn’t know what to do or say, so he clears his throat and says the dumbest possible thing (as usual).

“So, can I, uh… do I get to keep these, or what?”

There’s no answer. Dean turns; Sam’s staring at the letters in his hands. He’s quiet for another long moment before he finally shrugs, dropping his eyes to the floor.

“They’re yours,” he says softly. “Do whatever you want with them.”

—-

Dean gets a couple of beers out of the fridge and sits on the bed next to Sam, popping them both open and offering him one. Sam stares at it for what feel like forever before finally dragging up one of his hands ( _like it weighs a thousand pounds, like even this one small thing is too much effort, more than he can handle when on the inside he’s bleeding to death_ ) and taking it. He doesn’t drink from it. Just dangles it loosely from his fingers and continues to stare at it.

Dean bumps their knees together. “Just… give me a couple days to get my head wrapped around this, alright?” It’s not good enough, and he knows it’s not, but he can’t pull together another response. Not now. He needs time to think. Sam needs him right now, he _knows_ that, but he has to get his head on straight before he can be of any help.

He bumps Sam’s knee again. “We’ll figure it out.”

Sam doesn’t move for a few more seconds. Then he slowly lifts the beer to his lips and takes a long pull, eyes staring straight ahead. He doesn’t answer.

—-

They don’t say more than a few words to each other for the next couple of days. Dean’s lost in his own head. Sam’s waiting for the verdict.

When Sam wakes up one morning alone in the motel room and sees the envelope on the table addressed to _Sammy_ , something in him breaks. It feels like he can’t breathe.

—-

It starts off:

_Sam,_

_You’re probably freaking out right now. Don’t. I just went out to get breakfast and to give you some time to read and think. I’ll come back when you’re ready to see me. Take as much time as you need. I didn’t pack an overnight bag, though, so I’m kind of hoping you don’t need too much time._

_We both know I can write about as well as I can dance the marimba, so try not to piss yourself laughing before I get to the end. And don’t be expecting any more letters out of me, bitch. I’m barely started on this one and I’m already having traumatic flashbacks to highschool English._

_Not exactly fair that I have to respond to a decade and a half of your feelings in just one letter, so let me just list the important points, and we can hash the rest of it out later._

_I have not ever, nor do I now, nor will I at any point in the future, hate you._

_I don’t think you’re a monster._

_I don’t think you’re disgusting._

_I love you with every goddamn fiber of my being and nothing and nobody is ever going to keep us apart. Including you. Stop trying to run away from me. Stop hiding. I want you. I want every part of you._ _I don’t just want the pretty stuff on the outside. I want everything. All your fears. All the times you’re angry with me. All the weird shit you’re too embarrassed to say. Everything you’re ashamed of. I want you to let me into every corner. I want you to let me blow the dust off the shelves and touch the parts of you that have never seen light of day._

_You are mine, Sam, and I love you, and I will always love you. I know I’ve fucked up. Believe me, I know. I’m not ever supposed to hurt you, and I did anyway. I haven’t been listening to you. But that’s gonna change. I’m here. I’m with you. We’ll figure this out._

_If you need some space after all this mess, I understand. I’ve been acting like a little shit and I wouldn’t blame you for changing your mind. It’s just that, you kinda scared me. I read your letters and I realized there was so much I didn’t know about you. So much you’d kept from me. So much I almost missed out on. And I didn’t know how close I’d come to never getting the chance. (That suicide shit, by the way? That stops now.) And then there was the fact that you saw right the fuck through me like I was made of glass. I realized that while reading your letters, too. Here I was thinking I was an international man of mystery, and it turns out you were the one keeping the big secret all these years._

_But I figured it out. Here it is: (don’t laugh)_

_You knew me because you read my letter, too, only it wasn’t on paper. It was everything. My whole life has been a love letter. To you and for you and about you._

_Sammy, if you don’t hear anything else I say, I want you to get this through your head: You are the love of my life. You always have been. You always will be._

_And Sam, if you tell me to fuck off, I will completely deserve it, and I will fuck right the hell off. But if you still want this, if you still want me, I’m game. And I’ll try to get it right this time._

_Love always,_

_Your brother,_

_Dean_

_P.S. Text me when you finish reading this so I know I can come home._

—-

Sam’s crying, but somehow manages to fumble out his phone and text Dean. _Come home._

Dean can’t have been far away, because he arrives about a minute later with two deliciously scented brown paper bags in one hand and a coffee tray in the other. He’s smiling tentatively when Sam opens the door, but it wilts a little as he takes in the puffy red eyes and tearstains.

“That bad, huh?” he asks sheepishly.

Sam shakes his head. He reaches out to take the coffee, the food, and then goes to set them on the table. When he turns around, Dean has shut the door and moved to stand behind him, looking a little wary.

One step, and the distance between them is closed. Sam looks down into Dean’s green eyes. Dean’s looking at him, too. And for a moment they just stand there, looking, really _looking_ at each other, in a way that maybe they never have.

Then Dean’s hands come up to cup his jaw, and Dean leans forward, and then Dean’s _there,_ in his space, against his skin, and Dean’s lips are moving softly over his, and everything’s bright and there’s no air and Sam can _fly._

It’s not until Dean pulls away and looks at him with concern that Sam realizes he’s crying again.

“Did you change your mind?” Dean asks, and that little waver of uncertainty in his voice makes Sam laugh in a way that sounds like glass shattering and catching in his throat, blocking his airway, shredding his vocal cords.

Dean’s face fills with tender concern and he shifts his hands on Sam’s face, moves the pads of his thumbs over Sam’s cheekbones to wipe away the sticky remnants of his tears.

“This ain’t gonna work out for either of us if all I ever do is make you cry,” Dean jokes.

Sam laughs again, and this time it feels like he can breathe.

Dean’s still so close, so close, and his gaze is intent on Sam’s face, totally focused on the slow movements of his thumbs. Then he lifts his eyes to Sam’s again, brow scrunching.

“You haven’t said a word to me since I came in,” he says softly, not accusing, just prompting gently. Opening the door.

Sam opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He shrugs. At a loss.

Dean strokes his face, looking at him sadly… almost disappointed. Like this isn’t the way he expected it to go. For a moment, Sam’s terrified. _This was a test and I failed it._

But then Dean looks determined, he looks like _Dean_ again, and he grins. “We’ll start slow. You want the egg-Swiss-bacon sandwich, or the egg-cheddar-sausage?” When Sam just stares at him, he prompts again, gently. “It’s not a trick question, bitch.”

“…Swiss.” His voice is a croak. And after a moment he’s able to add, “Jerk.”

Dean smiles. “That’s my boy.”


End file.
